H E A R T
by Prince SuperSharky
Summary: What does it mean to be truly alive? Science can only take you so far... and Dr. Arthur Kirkland went far beyond that. He set out to save a life; and instead, he created life. USUK. Steampunk!AU
1. Prologue

**Overall Author's Note here. There won't be any more of these unless they're for clarifications/important things.**

**Summary:** What does it mean to be truly alive? Science can only take you so far... and Dr. Arthur Kirkland went far beyond that. He set out to save a life; and instead, he created life. USUK. Steampunk!AU

**Warnings:** Human names used, Steampunk! AU, possible OOC (forgive me, I'm challenging myself to write some characters I'm really not fully comfortable with _yet_), possible character death, some controversial topics involving: history, current events, politics (I'll try to keep those to a bare minimum), human experimentation, possible torture and other things that challenge morals, ethics, as well as popular views on things.

Ah yes, and many plot twists will be coming your way. Just a heads up!

**Note:** Try to read this with an open mind and think about the semantics and deeper meaning behind the words, because I assure you, the secrets, as well as the truth (funny, that, hunh?), lie within those little things (and I work really hard to get said little things to mesh together). With that said, if you spot any grammar/spelling mistakes, please BITE ME via review. Mistakes need to be taken out with a bottle of Windex on laser sniper mode. And, as always, food for thought is great. So please, enjoy.

Oh, and if you're reading any of my other stories, I haven't given up on them, and I'm not quite on hiatus—it's just that the (demonic) plot bunnies are eating me from the inside out. I blame it on my recent obsession with Hetalia (first Hetalia fic, so rip it to shreds, please!).

This is my Remembrance Day tribute that has barely anything to do with Remembrance Day—but I was never good at writing themed things for a specific day or time of year. Anyways, here it is. Thank you veterans all the world over—past and present. Thank you.

The plot belongs to Prince SuperSharky and her beloved MotherMaple. If I owned Hetalia— PFFFT. Well, there go your beloved bishonen and bishojo... People generally turn out looking like generic stick figures with super-sized nametags when I draw them.

**Hetalia ****© Himaruya Hidekaz**

* * *

><p><strong> HEART<strong>

_ Prologue_

* * *

><p><em>do you know<br>where your  
><em>_**heart**__ is?  
>do you think you can<br>find it?_

-OneRepublic;  
>Say (All I Need)<p>

* * *

><p>What is a heart?<p>

Is it the organ beating in your chest; you know, the one that's pumping blood through your body? That's what it's labelled as on his chart on the wall of his beloved lab. It's dusty and a bit faded from the sunlight, but his swirly handwriting is clear; in the middle of the map of the human body, a little to the right of centre, is a fist-sized lump labelled simply as a '_heart'._ It has thin tendril-like 'veins' branching off of it, spreading throughout the picture, intertwining with the delicate appendages of the hands, twisting like an intricate design around bones and all the way to the fine nerve-endings of the brain.

All humans have one—this _heart_—or so I've been told. This organ allows humans to live; without a heart, they would die. He said something about air and a chemical called 'Oxeegen'(?) I didn't really understand it when he explained it to me, but it's clear that the heart is very important to people.

He also told me that people sometimes use 'heart' to describe someone's soul.

What's a soul?

...Can you eat it? Can you see, feel, or smell it? I searched, looking over the map for hours, scanning it once, twice, thrice—but there was nothing labelled with that word. So is the heart really the same thing as a soul? Does that mean that I could reach out and touch your soul right now? He'd just scoffed at my question when I'd asked—he's a mean one alright; a downright snarky one, I tell you. He doesn't understand what the answer really means to me. It was just a question, that bloody old grouch...!

He did say this though: a heart can't be touched, that it's a _feeling_. What are feelings? Do I have them? Humans have them, I know. They were in some of his books—"Shakeyspeare", was it? Humans are capable of so much. Anger, vengeance and a lust for power can drive them to murder, raid, pillage and plunder; but it's this thing called love that can drive them to do unthinkable things. Love sparked the Trojan War; love begot the demise of Romeo and Juliet; love drew Mark Antony and Cleopatra to each other and then tore them apart; and it was love that compelled Orpheus to knowingly walk into the depths of Hades.

I spent many days on the floor of the lab reading—so much that he had begun to suspect that something was wrong. He'd fussed over me, trying to make me eat some of his horrible 'scones'. But if he wasn't going to give me straight answers, I'd find them myself! The books told me one thing—three things run this world: money, lust, and love. Money is power, and money can satiate your lust...but money can't buy love—hearts are the currency of love. The cost of love is steep. Always, always, the books mentioned this _heart_. Some said that you can touch a heart, and some deemed it impossible. I don't know what to believe.

But…_could_ I? Could I really reach out and touch your heart?

If I could, then...

...could you maybe...touch _my _heart?

I...I don't know...but...

But do humans need a heart to truly live?

.

.

.

...Am _I_ alive?

A-Are you still there? Please, tell me that I have a purpose—that I'm just the same as you, that I live, that I breathe, that I have a heart, that I am alive.

Lie to me, and tell me that I am _human._


	2. Chapter 1

**Hetalia ****© Himaruya Hidekaz**

**Posted on:** November 11th, 2012

**Last edited on: **November 11th, 2012

Note: Hong Kong in this AU fic is Wang Xiao Li. Xiao Li would be his pet name (something to the effect of "little Li"). Or just Li for short.

And might I also stress _**AU.**_

* * *

><p><strong> HEART<strong>

_Chapter One_

* * *

><p><em>Oh brother <em>I can't_  
>I can't get through.<br>I've been trying  
>hard to reach<br>you  
>'cause <em>I don't know_  
>what to<br>do._

_Oh brother _I can't believe_  
>it's true.<br>_I'm so scared_ about the future  
>and I wanna talk to you.<br>_

_Oh I wanna talk to __**you**__. _

-Coldplay;  
>Talk<p>

* * *

><p>Allied Corporations was a company founded by a circle of wealthy Englishmen in British Canada shortly after the Thirteen Colonies' loss of the Revolutionary war against the Empire. These patrons dabbled in the sciences and developing technologies by commissioning and funding innovators and inventors alike. All who approached were offered financial support, labs and research equipment. The only thing needed in return was <em>results<em>—results that could be mass produced, packaged and sold—preferably with a large profit in return.

Failure to produce a useful curio to satisfy aristocrats with too much time and loose money, or a marketable something-or-other was grounds for termination of the contract, and all financial loans and monetary equivalents of equipment would need to be paid tenfold to the company. Needless to say, eager graduates were first to try their hand at inventing while not fully understanding the strenuous demands that the Corporation was asking of them. And so as the young enthusiasts failed at meeting the requirements set by the Corporation, debt levels in Canada skyrocketed while Allied Corporations shares shot through the roof.

The job opportunities attracted people from all around the globe—brought them to the New World. The competition was tough, as per expectations. That was their carrot and stick ideology rather than carrot _or_ stick. Work hard, take the sticks' blows, and there would be plots upon plots of carrots at the end. If necessity was the mother of invention, then competition yielded profits that were sky high, and perhaps even beyond, if any of the inventions were anything to show for.

The up-and-coming business had become very successful by the turn of the century, even after changing hands many times. It first went to a Frenchman who fancied himself a scientist, then back to being a British enterprise, before briefly landing in the hands of a Chinese company. A firm in the British-American colonies showed interest in purchasing Allied Corporations, but the British government had quickly stepped in during the juggle, swooping in to gain control of the company and its assets before they were split and sold in a corporate power struggle. The Corporation, initially based in the muddy town of York, British Canada, had opened new branches in London, England; and New York City, British America.

As soon as the government came to be in control of the Corporation, they immediately implemented many structural changes on the system, mainly regarding the distribution of resources and veto power. However, even the government could not keep hold of the company for very long—it was bought out soon after by other wealthy patrons who offered an amount so tantalizing that no party could refuse without seeming suspicious.

The obscure patrons had shifted the Headquarters of Allied Corporations (nicknamed Paperwork Central) to London, while making York (now renamed Toronto) and New York their main manufacturing powerhouses. Then, they did something that could perhaps be considered insignificant if not for the peculiarity of the action—they created another branch in Western British Canada. It was to show their gratitude to the British government by helping with population dispersion by creating jobs there. The only discontinuity was the fact that very few people went out to seek jobs there, and yet, the West branch kept operating.

No one questioned it.

Their main competition was a rival group called the Axis, centred in the German states with a strong Japanese backing of their operations. They were a very successful group, with an ideology that stood in opposition of that of the Allies. This incited a competitive attitude and more than just a friendly rivalry between the two, always trying to get a technological one-up over the other.

Within Allied Corporations itself, there were many defined groups—demographics, or cliques, if you will.

There were the avid researchers who wanted to figure out the inner workings of the world and unravel secrets for the betterment of mankind. There were the rookies who were out to make a name for themselves in the broadening field of science. There were some who dabbled out of curiosity and a thirst for adventure. There were some who were in it for the accommodations—they never looked past the glittering advantages of working for the company and into the ruthless corporate greed behind it all, which of course, was largely due to another well-defined demographic within the company: the capitalists.

They were the most calculating and opportunistic of the bunch. While the researchers were trapped in their own little idealistic bubble, deaf and blind to the corruption around them, and the rookies immersed themselves in their transient fame, the capitalists were quickly accumulating their profits. They bought out many shares in the company, letting their money earn them even more money, until they were the ones controlling the resources and cash flow through the Corporation.

They became so powerful, so rooted in the company's infrastructure that they soon were able to veto decisions and intimidate the employees farther down the corporate food chain with their immense wealth and resources. They were able to channel funds and manpower into fields that could be useful to their _clientele, _and being selective with the innovators that they promoted. Some said, though always in hushed voices and with the watchful eyes of prey, for fear that they might be listening, that those higher up also had their own personal assassination squads.

Then we arrive at the last and smallest group within the company. A minority group of one—

* * *

><p>"...and a half," he joked, much to the distaste and guilt of the other man in his company.<p>

"Don't speak so lightly of such things!" the Englishman hissed in response, glaring at the flamboyant blond over the rim of his bone china teacup.

"Why ever not, mon lapin?"

"Because it ruins my appetite," he answered, placing his teacup down with a delicate hand, "bloody frog," he added for good measure. "Why are you here anyway?"

"Why am I here? That is because you need me here, Arthur! You've been locking yourself in that dreary lab of yours for days! You've no idea how much that American has been pestering me about you all this time!" the first man shifted in his seat, taking a sip from his own teacup as well. He'd never admit it, but the only thing that Arthur made that he'd even consider consumable would be his tea. He made a point to wrinkle his nose at the fragrance.

"Better you than me," Arthur muttered, picking up a blackened scone with one hand and a butter knife with the other.

"You're going to eat those? I thought that you'd taken to making paperweights," the Frenchman shot back with practiced ease. He took another sip of tea, enjoying the banter, though he'd call it anything but playful.

"Well, you're sorely mistaken, Francis," Arthur said acerbically. "And," he continued, pulling out a small pocket watch and unclasping its crooked latch, "it seems like you've overstayed your welcome—as if that'd ever existed."

"But if I leave, sweet Arthur will be lonely. Don't you enjoy big brother's company?" Francis simpered, goading him on. It really was too amusing, even though he could feel his own temper rising, being egged on in return by the Englishman's aggravated reactions.

"No, I don't," was the automatic response. "Now, please _leave!_" he growled, trying to retain a half-decent civil front as he put the much-battered watch away.

"But if I do, that American boy—"

"Don't refer to him as American. The British Empire won that bloody war. Don't appease them by recognizing them," Arthur cut in. "But of course, you cowardly French supported them."

The Frenchman snorted. "Whatever you English want, you raid and take! You're warmongering and will destroy the beauty in this world!" Francis sniffed, crossing his arms.

"_I'm_ warmongering?" Arthur gestured roughly at himself with a sharp jab to the chest. By this time, he was on his feet, unable to take this sitting down for a moment longer. "That's total bollocks! _You!_ I wasn't even alive at the time of the revolution!"

"Oi!" Francis was on his feet as well. "Just what are you implying? I wasn't either!"

"Oh, but you were a war profiteer!" Arthur shot back haughtily.

"But hardly a _warmonger_," Francis hissed.

"The end result is the same," Arthur scoffed, fingers tightening on the butter knife still clenched in his hand.

"Says the one who shot skyships down left and right at the drop of a hat—and it didn't matter who you were fighting for, now did it? 'The end result is the same,' _says the one who attacked his own brothers,_" Francis said, grabbing a fistful of the Englishman's shirt and pulling him towards him, knowing full well that that was a low blow, feeling Arthur's muscles tense. "But that's only to be expected with your brutish ways. Your only language is violence."

Arthur snarled, "How's _this_ for violence?" He brought the knife up, but Francis caught his hand, twisting the knife out of it. Arthur glared at him, but his gaze quickly shifted to Francis' hand that had grabbed the knife, then to the man's other hand that had grabbed Arthur's wrist. Arthur's brow furrowed and expression soured as he studied Francis`s…. hand. Breathing hard, he looked away, jerking his arm away from Francis.

"Well, big brother knows when he's not wanted," Francis said, fixing his cravat coolly and retrieving his suit jacket that had fallen to the mossy paving stones of the greenhouse sometime during his brief stay. "I'll be taking my leave now."

"Show yourself out, and don't bother coming back, frog," he said, with the full knowledge that he would be back sooner or later to disturb him, a hint of guilt evident in his voice.

"Yes, yes, of course, rosbif," Francis called over his shoulder, slipping out of the door with a nonchalant wave.

But even with the Frenchman gone, Arthur could still feel the cool metal grip of Francis' prosthetic hand around his wrist. He could still feel the burn of shame and guilt in the pit of his stomach, knowing that the loss of Francis' hand had been his fault.

But it had been worse—much worse—in the first few months, watching Francis struggle with nothing but a stump in place of a slender hand. It was even worse because the former pirate didn't blame him for the injury or their current predicament. He'd just smiled and continued to adjust to their new surroundings with relative ease—an ease that Arthur had never been able to feel himself.

Arthur sighed. It'd been two years ago when this had all started. That meant that it would be at least another eight years of his sentence before he'd be free—and even then, he could never truly be free anymore. The military would be watching him.

"Hey, Artie!"

Not that they weren't keeping an eye on him _now_.

Arthur groaned under his breath, picking up his tea set and taking another glance around the solarium. He gritted his teeth and headed into his lab, trying to ignore the singsong of voice of Francis in his head chirping something that sounded like _"Karma~_". He sighed exasperatedly and placed the platter down on a counter beside the various flasks and beakers that also needed to be washed out. Li would take care of those. _Should_ take care of those, Arthur amended.

When the pounding on the door of the greenhouse grew to be too loud, Arthur strode over quickly and, bracing himself, yanked the door open, stepping swiftly out of the way when a mess of paper, leather, and blond hair came tumbling in. Pride of the Royal Military, his _arse_.

"Artie!" he greeted, leaping to his feet, readjusting his glasses so that they rested comfortably on the bridge of his nose once more. "I thought you were out or something."

"Then why would you bother knocking?" he growled. "And don't address me so familiarly."

"To be polite?" was the man's nonsensical reply. "I was raised to be a gentleman, after all," he answered, ignoring Arthur's demand.

Arthur resisted the urge to snort. Alfred F. Jones (and he would never let people forget the 'F'), a _gentleman_?

"Oh yeah!" He knelt back down to collect the papers that were scattered across the uneven stone path. "I was told to bring these here to you."

"Who was it?" Arthur reached out for the scuffled papers, straightening them out in his hands with only the slightest bit of disdain. "What are they?" he asked even as his eyes scanned the papers.

The man shrugged distractedly, edging past Arthur to survey the room. "I dunno."

"Oi!" Arthur called irritably, but kept his attention on the papers. "Stay _out_ of my study!"

There was a stack of documents and research papers of Arthur's that had been pored over by the board of directors; signed, stamped, and _previously_ sealed. The packaging had been cut open for the contents to be inspected, and the military _dogs_ that did it hadn't even bothered to reseal it. It was a blatant and calculated show of their power over him. It still rankled Arthur to no end despite the fact that these papers had little personal meaning to him. It was their lack of subtly that the man resented most.

Military was military and might was right, supposedly.

And Private Jones was no exception to this rule either. The rookie ace had had too much cheek during his flight training and military exercises. He would be observing Arthur for his alleged insubordination and ignoring of the chain of command.

Those were snippets of gossip that Francis had passed on to him, though Arthur didn't much care for them. If Alfred himself had never mentioned it, he supposed he shouldn't put much weight on it. And if Alfred knew anything about what Arthur knew of him, he never let on, and he continued to insist that he was here on very important and very official government business. He was the most brazen and transparent one of them all, and Arthur despised him all the more for it.

_However_….

"Oh, and you've got a telegram!"

…._his stupidity is almost too good to be true._

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" Arthur snapped. He took a deep breath before exhaling heavily and holding a hand out. "Give it here," he ordered in clipped tones.

"Geez, man. I picked it up for you. The least you could do is at least _pretend_ to be grateful," Alfred grumbled. "I didn't understand any of that stupid message anyway," he added sullenly.

Picked it up for him? That meant that Alfred would have been the only sort of censorship regarding that telegram, and he hadn't understood the message. There was a niggling feeling at the back of Arthur's mind asking why the military had allowed for this message to get through without scrutiny.

Waiting for a moment to compose himself so that he wouldn't snatch at the slip of paper in a barbaric and very unbecoming manner, Arthur moved his hand in an impatient gesture when Alfred did nothing but stare him down. Arthur's eyes narrowed. Is this moron really attempting to assert his so-called authority here?

Alfred reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and tossed it at Arthur. Surprised, the paper ball bounced off of his head and fell to the cobbles. Arthur hissed a few choice curses and grabbed the telegram from the ground as Alfred walked on past him to look around.

The Briton's eyes scanned the words on the page quickly.

_Hullo. How's the little lion doing? STOP. Any leads? We fly soon. STOP. Deal with this accordingly. END MESSAGE._

Arthur read it over once, twice, and then crumpled the sheet up in his fist. His brothers. A feeling of hatred and sadness welled up inside of him. The message they'd sent was so cold. But then again, if they'd left him behind like that two years ago—left him behind to _this_—they'd be cold enough to send meaningless telegrams.

_Not meaningless_. My apologies; pardon me—_not_ meaningless. No, far from it. His brothers said that they'd fly soon—and since they'd happened to send a telegram along, that meant that they felt safe enough to contact him from they were.

Arthur smirked. His brothers had never been as analytical as he was. From his deductions, his brothers could only be in a handful of places—they'd be so easy to track. He would have to mention their idiocy in his telegram in reply, and remind them that they weren't the only ones still resisting, still fighting to keep their sister, the little lion that she was, alive…. Though, granted, they were all trying to do that in their own ways.

Their sister. _Alice_...

"Hey Artie, they said that I'll be up in the air again soon. Isn't that awesome?" came Alfred's voice as he finished his circle of the macabre greenhouse. "That means that I get to—"

"Splendid," Arthur replied, coming back to his senses. He smoothed out the telegram and folded it with a crisp line, running over the crease with his nail.

"...Uh." That obviously hadn't been the response that the pilot had been expecting.

"I meant to say," Arthur began to move slowly towards the man, corralling him, who moved backwards in response to his actions, "that I certainly hope that you will be gone from this place as soon as it is convenient for myself, which would be this very instant. And I bid you a good day and good afternoon and good evening, good flying, _and_…" he paused to give the taken aback officer a hearty shove out of the compound with his shoulder and slammed the door shut behind him, "_good night and good riddance!"_

_Finally_, he was alone. Arthur breathed a sigh of relief. With that French engineer and (British North-) American fighter pilot gone, he could finally get to work without the feeling of their prying eyes—Francis with his sly curiosity, and Alfred with the intent to no doubt gobble up a sliver of information and present it to his military superiors with shining eyes and wagging tail for a note of recommendation or something of that sort.

He rifled through his drawers before resurfacing with his spectacles. The gold wire was crooked and quite obviously beaten and bent back into shape in many different locations, but still sat naturally, and almost comfortably, on the bridge of his nose. He pulled the telegram from the wooden countertop, and headed towards his lab.

Passing by the French windows, he frowned at the dismal lineup of flora—all in various stages of sickness and death. Stopping for a moment, he kneeled to pointlessly readjust them so they were arranged in their original strict rows. He'd have to have another word with Dr. Wang about Li, and not just regarding the crude potting of his petunias. Was it really necessary for the boy to work for _him_ of all people? He was more of a scallywag than a set of helping hands, and caused far more trouble than he helped to clear up.

And it wasn't just that.

Dr. Wang Yao, executive in the Corporation, practically head of operations, had worked his way up to his rank, fighting for it the entire way. God only knew the amount of hard work and _efforts_ it took for a Chinaman to rise so quickly to the upper echelon of an elite British company.

But Arthur knew much more than that. He'd heard it all from Francis, who certainly got around more than he did—his sentence being far more forbearing and less restrictive on his rights. Dr. Wang Yao had a large extended family that had influences in all sorts of fields—rarer than rare for a Chinaman in Britain. They had some that excelled in the medicinal arts, and at least one of them was accused of being a proficient night surgeon of sorts, although it was never proven. Many still were involved within the judicial system, pulling strings no doubt, Arthur supposed. But most of all, what had intrigued Arthur, was the fact that many of Yao's relatives were involved somehow with the military.

The same military that had accosted and tricked Arthur two years ago and crippled Francis. The very military from which Alfred _F._ Jones proudly hailed. It was hegemony backed by heavy militarism.

It was said, or rather, _Francis_ had said, that one of Yao's relatives, whom he had raised as a younger brother, had scorned the Allied competitive carrot _and_ stick system. His name was Kiku Honda, and he had went on to become one of the founders of Allied Corporation's main competitor—The Axis. To Wang, shamed by one of his own, the competition between the companies was personal; and, ever-prideful, he was ruthless in his methods to secure a monopoly.

Arthur knew that with his own recent history, Wang clearly abhorred him. But both Wang and the company needed Arthur's skills. And that's why they looked for the best opportunity to cage him in—trap him with their laws and bend them as he tried to duck and weave, then bind him with their tangles of legalities and paperwork.

Bloody paperwork. Arthur stood, making sure the telegram was once more secure in his hands. He left the dying plants behind as he wiped his shoes on a mat before stepping into a long corridor. The greenhouse was connected to the main hall of the building on one side, and on the other, connected to a small brewing room for the horticulturalists and herbalists alike to create and let their concoctions set. That brewing room was now used as the Englishman's kitchen. The brewing room, by an architectural mistake, had a long hallway branching off of it, the very one that Arthur was walking down, and it led to another room that Arthur used as a study. It was made of warm-coloured wood and filled with shelves upon shelves of books. Adjacent to it was Arthur's lab. He was quite thankful for the reclusive lab to work in.

The greenhouse and the brewing room used to be open for use by other innovators—particularly the ones who worked with _certain_ herbs with high levels of toxins—that is, until Arthur Kirkland began using the lab. Some said that it was his unpleasant aura, and others said that it was the aroma of his cooking that caused the noxious plants to shrivel up and die, and even causing the poisons themselves to bubble over, explode, or become impotent.

Some were even extreme enough to accuse him of black magic. Little did they know that it'd been both Arthur and Li, unbeknownst to the other scientists as well as each other, who had been meddling with their potions and plants. Li, who'd grown bored and hadn't known what the concoctions were, had mixed them together and rearranged their labels. And Arthur who had become rather annoyed with the gossipy workers had considered tampering with their experiments, but the scientist in him had overcome the spiteful boyish desire, and he'd left the brews alone.

...But then he'd genuinely been concerned for the wellbeing of the plants.

"_You're getting too much sun. Here, I'll put you in the shade."_ That flower needed a constant heat source—so much that at night it had to be kept under a heat lamp or in an incubator—to be able to produce nectar that could be used to treat all sorts of burns. When removed from the heat source, its nectar, and subsequently honey that was made from it, would poison the user, and the plant would remain that way, the damage irreversible. When the toxicologist discovered them a week later, the flowers had to be burned.

"_That one looks too wet. I should put it here so that it can get direct sunlight." _That moss was a rare jungle breed that required a dark and semi-aquatic habitat. It lasted until that afternoon when all of the water had evaporated under the heat of the sun. The moss had then shrivelled up and died.

"_You're covered in this muck. I'll clean you up spic and span." _The white 'muck' was a parasite that secreted mucus that had properties that were unfamiliar to mankind. It had survived until the moment Arthur Kirkland decided that its host plant was dirty and needed to be hosed off. The parasite had died moments later, its uses remaining unknown as another specimen could not be found.

After the various species had died, the herbologists all left. They didn't return again. There was talk of bringing an exorcist in, and for the meantime, another greenhouse was built on the other end of the complex, as far away from Arthur's little corner of the Corporation as possible. Now, the plants that remained had overrun the greenhouse, covering it with their pleasant shades of green.

The only ones who ever entered the overgrown greenhouse now were Francis, himself, and Alfred.

Arthur sighed at the thought of the _**British**__ North American_ from the _**Colonies**_, and thought instead of the rest of the paperwork sitting on the table in the brewing room. He'd deal with the remaining papers later. Those could wait. He had all the time in the world when it came to those. What he didn't have time for was to dawdle and quibble over trivial chores such as paperwork. _Alice_ didn't have time.

But never mind that. Arthur ran his finger lightly over the folded edge of the telegram, wiping off a smidge of dirt and encrusted organic matter as he continued down the hallway past the various displays of pottery, statues and paintings (he never did understand just why the Corporation liked to show off their wealth and influence by placing these artifacts in the buildings. No one could see them and for the most part didn't bother with them anyway).

Wang Li. Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose as he walked, then ran his free hand through his hair a few times.

When the idea of taking the boy on as an assistant had originally been proposed by the Archive-master, Ivan Braginski, Arthur had all but jumped at the opportunity. That was at the beginning of his (rather lax) sentence, when he'd been a greenhorn and Francis had still been struggling with his stump of a hand. He'd been alone in his laboratory, eager and thinking his sentence suspicious in its leniency, but who was he to complain? It was ten years of free labour for the company or it was the clink. And at least here, the quality of his meals and room and board was insured, and he received all the materials he asked for—so long as he produced results that satisfied the superiors within the company.

They had given him a project—to create a machine, or at least plans for a machine, that could erase a person's memories.

Arthur had taken the boy, who was fourteen years old at the time, expecting resistance from Yao, but none came. He'd expected the Chinaman to be (more) reluctant to let his youngest brother work for a foreigner, especially with his previous employment. Arthur scoffed. All older brothers were the same.

The boy, Li, didn't help much. But Arthur toiled for months before coming out with a design for a machine that would not only erase memories, but could allow the user to alter them if they so wished to. He had even built an experimental version of the contraption. He'd finished his part with months left to spare before the deadline—just as he'd planned. When the superiors (he'd _never_ think of them as '_his_' superiors) came to check, he would show them mere tidbits of his progress, bluffing his way past their check-ins to buy himself time.

With all of that extra time left, Arthur worked on what he'd held in his mind for his entire life—a cure for his sister Alice's disease.

Li did little to assist Arthur with anything, but he stayed out of the way, and for the most part, he was quiet. And for that, Arthur was thankful at least.

Oh who was he trying to fool?

Of Wang Li, Arthur was sure of three things. First, the child was a virtually expressionless troublemaker through and through. Second, the boy was a slacker and was absent quite often, running with the street boys through alleyways and marketplaces stealing God knows what; and when he was present... he made his presence known. Particularly with the use of—

Arthur paused in his footsteps, almost afraid to open the door to his lab. Call it intuition. He slowly stole up to the wooden frame and pressed his ear against it.

_...Chk._

Arthur tilted his head at that sound. It was familiar. But where had heard that sound before? It reminded him vaguely of dark nights working late by the light of a candle.

_Candle_. Matches! Arthur pushed himself away from the door.

_...tssssss__**ssssSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS—**_

And not a moment too soon.

CRACK! CRACKCRACKCRACKCRACKCRACKCRA CK!

The door burst open, releasing dozens of black market firecrackers and Oriental rockets of different sizes out, whizzing down the long hallway, smashing different objects and destroying paintings, not that Arthur minded much. They weren't his, and he was too busy running for cover to be worrying about priceless (and therefore worthless) relics.

Yes, when he was present, Wang Li made sure that you knew that he was there—in a very flashy, gunpowdery way.

Arthur leaped behind a marble statue of a scantily-clad goddess (must be a Greek treasure, he mused), as the fireworks smashed into it—no doubt leaving some battle wounds for dear Aphrodite as chunks of stone and white powder rained down on the Englishman's head. More firerockets crashed against the floorboards and the walls, sparked and spluttered out, but still more exploded midair and showered their sparks liberally across the room.

Arthur stayed in place, keeping his eye on one rocket in particular. It'd been knocked out of the air by another projectile and skittered to a halt on the ornate Persian rug. By then, the other firerockets had fizzled themselves out, and all would've been well if that one had not sputtered back to life and begun spitting sparks as it spun in mad circles.

A single plume of smoke rising from the crash site sent Arthur into action. He couldn't risk it! He couldn't let the lab burn down again like it had a year ago. He'd been in Glasgow for his parole talks, and had been in an airship accident on his way back. When he'd awoken in the hospital, he was shocked to find out that his entire lab had burned down and that the most probable cause was from incendiary devices.

They were able to rebuild his lab after the fire, and the machine and the designs were rescued from the flames. Some of his personal belongings were salvageable, but most of them had burned... along with his research papers regarding a possible cure.

Arthur had since then been unable to speak about Li without at least a trace bit of bitterness. But only a trace. It was the boy's fault of course—it _had_ to be, Arthur knew. But, he'd like to think that he had more self-control than that. So, there it remained; a trace amount of animosity in his tone because of his _gentleman_'s strength of mind, as well as the third thing that he knew about the boy.

Arthur stamped the hungrily growing flame out, hissing in pain as the blasted thing continued to twist and twirl this way and that, sending licks of flame around his ankles while it shrieked and whistled.

When it finally died down, Arthur stepped out from Aphrodite's marble sacrifice to assess the damage. The statue groaned and began sliding towards him, and he held his arms out to protect his face, cringing all the while. Luckily for him, the divine beauty still took mercy on him, and stilled her journey to smite him.

Breathing a sigh of relief, he skittishly stepped away from the sculpture, surveying the room. It didn't appear to be too badly damaged besides the occasional scorch marks that, to be perfectly frank, actually livened up the dark and dank atmosphere and gave it some much-needed character (because what all vintage wallpapers need is to be curled and blackened by black market oriental firerockets).

However, that still did not excuse the fact that it was dangerous to his studies and his works that could have been blackened and burned just as easily.

A flash of a red changshan caught his eye. He started forward angrily, ready to admonish the Asian teen for his childish display and his continued deviant and absolutely socially _unacceptable_ behaviour. He had a whole spiel about arson prepared in his mind and he was about to unleash his wrath on him when the boy stepped out from alcove to stand on the other end of the hallway.

Li held another string of firecrackers—unlit, mark you—and piece of paper in his hands.

Arthur froze, eyes widening. Immediately, his hands shot to his coat pockets, feeling for the slip of paper that could possibly expose him and his brothers. The telegram! He gaped at the boy, trying to form words while struggling against the rising panic and fury. He tried to keep himself composed, and retain some semblance of authority. But he knew that the silent plea in his eyes was all but apparent. _Please, no...!_

Li blinked slowly, studying Arthur with an almost curious expression on his face before turning his attention back to the still-folded piece of paper.

It was a long moment filled with both tension and apprehension on Arthur's part, as he waited, analyzing his possible actions. He could play it off as nothing, pretend it was all a joke—a scrap of parchment and nothing more. He could continue on with his rebukes as if the telegram didn't even matter. He could rush in and snatch the paper away. He could—

"You," Li spoke clearly and evenly, as if measuring his words with Arthur's corresponding expression, "dropped this."

He held the telegram out to the Englishman who was too dumbfounded to react.

The boy waited for a moment, and when Arthur still didn't move, he slowly retracted his hand. "I'll just leave it here then." Li placed the letter down on a small table that was still intact, leaving small smudges on the once-white parchment. He walked on right past Arthur with the same blank expression on his face and the string of brightly coloured firecrackers trailing down his back, leaving a slight scent of singed hair and gunpowder. "I didn't see anything."

What Arthur didn't hear was Li's final words: "Brothers may not always do things that you agree with, but they mean well."

The third thing that Arthur Kirkland knew about Wang Li was that he was a spy for Wang Yao, and thereby the company, the bloody military and the whole goddamn state.


End file.
